Poems / by James G. Percival [electronic text]

PROMETHEUS,
PART I.

THEY talk of love and pleasure—but 'tis all A tale of falsehood. Life is made of gloom— The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall, The loveliest pathway leads but to the tomb; Alas! destruction is man's only doom. We rise, and sigh our little lives away, A moment blushes beauty's vernal bloom, A moment brightens manhood's summer ray, Then all is wrapped in cold and comfortless decay.

And yet the busy insects sweat and toil, And struggle hard to heap the shining ore— How trifling seems their bustle and turmoil, And even how trifling seems the sage's lore; Even he, who buried in the classic store Of ancient ages, ponders o'er the page Of Tully or of Plato, does no more Than with his bosom's quiet warfare wage, And in an endless round of useless thought engage.

Then close thy ponderous folio, and retire To shady coverts, undisturbed retreats, And lay thy careless hand upon thy lyre, And call the muses from their woodland seats: But ah! the Poet's pulse how vainly beats; 'T is but vexation to attune his strings. Even he, who with the Chian bard competes, Had better close his fancy's soaring wings, And own, earth's highest bliss no true enjoyment brings

We find this earth a gloomy, dull abode, And yet we wish for pleasure—sense is keen, And so this life is but a toilsome road, That leads us to a more delightful scene: Well, if thou find'st a solace there, I ween, It is the only joy thou e'er can'st know; And yet it is but fancy, never seen By mortal eye was all that lovely show, That paradise where we so fondly wish to go.

We have a body—and the wintry wind Will not respect the Poet. No; the storm Beats heavy on the case that holds a mind Of heavenly mould, as on the vulgar form; When bleak winds blow how can the soul be warm? Can fancy brighten in the cell of care? Can inspiration's breath the soul inform, When the limbs shiver in the gusty air, And in the thin, pale face the fiends of hunger stare?

O! they may tell me of the ethereal flame That burns and burns forever;—'tis the dream Of those high intellects, who well may claim Relation to the pure, celestial beam: The life eternal—'tis a glorious theme, Whereon bards, sages, have out-poured their fire; Yet view it narrowly, and it will seem But the wild mounting of unquenched desire, The long extended wish to raise our being higher.

True—'tis a mighty stretch, when unconfined The soul expatiates in imagined being, And where the vulgar eye can only find Dust, by a second sight strange visions seeing, And still from wonder on to wonder fleeing, By its enkindled feelings wildly driven, It leaps the walls of earth, but ill agreeing With those high-mounting thoughts to genius given, Nor rests till it has set its eagle-foot in heaven.

And there it culls the choicest fields of earth For all the pure, and beautiful, and bright, And gives a gay and odorous Eden birth, And rains around a flood of golden light, Where sun, moon, stars, no more awake the sight, But pouring from the Eternal's viewless throne, It fills us with ineffable delight, And every stain of earth forever flown, We bathe and bask in this ethereal fount alone.

And flowers of every hue and scent are there; The laughing fields are one enamelled bed, And filled with sweetness breathes the fanning air, And soaring birds are singing overhead, And bubbling brooks, by living fountains fed, O'er pebbled gems and pearl sands winding play; One boundless beauty o'er creation shed, The storm the cloud, the mist, have hied away, And nothing dims the blaze of this immortal day.

And man, a pure and quenchless beam of light, All eye, all ear, all feeling, reason, soul, He takes from good to good his tireless flight, And ever aiming at perfection's goal, Sees at one instant-glance the moral whole; Powers ever kindling, always on the wing, The disembodied spark Prometheus stole, To science, virtue, love, devotion spring His fancy, reason, heart—creation's angel king.

The whole machine of worlds before his eye Unfolded as a map, he glances through Systems in moments, sees the comet fly In its clear orbit through the fields of blue, And every instant gives him something new, Whereon his ever quenchless thirst he feeds; From star to insect, sun to falling dew, From atom to the immortal mind he speeds, And in the glow of thought the boundless volume reads.

Truth stands before him in a full, clear blaze, An intellectual sun-beam, and his eye Can look upon it with unbending gaze, And its minutest lineaments descry; No speck, nor line is passed unnoticed by, And the bright form perfection's image wears, And on its forehead sceptred majesty The calm, but awful port of justice bears, Who weeps, when she condemns, but smiles not, when she spares.

Mercy! thou dearest attribute of heaven, The attractive charm, the smile of Deity, To whom the keys of Paradise are given— Thy glance is love, thy brow benignity, And bending o'er the world with tender eye, Thy bright tears fall upon our hearts like dew, And melting at the call of clemency, We raise to God again our earth-fixed view, And in our bosom glows the living fire anew.

The perfect sense of beauty—how the heart, Even in this low estate, with transport swells, When Nature's charms at once upon us start— The ocean's roaring waste, where grandeur dwells, The cloud-girt mountain, whose bald summit tells, Beneath a pure black sky the faintest star, The flowery maze of woods, and hills, and dells, The bubbling brook, the cascade sounding far, Robed in a mellow mist, as Evening mounts her car,

And with her glowing pencil paints the skies In hues, transparent, melting, deep, and clear, The richest picture shown to mortal eyes, And lovelier when a dearer self is near, And we can whisper in her bending ear, "How fair are these, and yet how fairer thou," And pleased the artless flattery to hear, Her full blue eyes in meek confusion bow— That hour, that look, that eye, are living to me now.

But there the cloud of earth-born passion gone, Taste, quick, correct, exalted, raised, refined, Rears o'er the subject intellect her throne, The pure platonic extacy of mind; By universal harmony defined, It feels the fitness of each tint and hue, Of every tone that breathes along the wind, Of every motion, form, that charm the view, And lives upon the grand, the beautiful, and new.

The feelings of the heart retain their sway, But are ennobled—not the instinctive tie, The storgè, that so often leads astray, And poisons all the springs of infancy, So that, thenceforth, to live is but to die, And linger with a venom at the heart, To feel the sinking of despondency, To writhe around the early planted dart, And burn and put with thirst that never can depart.

Such are the wounds indulgent parents give, Who slay the smiling blossom of their love; And if the blighted plant should lingering live, The spirit cannot wing its flight above, But in its restless agony will rove Still on and onward in forbidden joy, Till wildly, as a whirlwind's fury drove, He rushes to the foes that soon destroy, And then they weep, and curse their lost, deluded boy.

His friendship warmed to love—all things, that feel, In all his tenderness of feeling share; His love, bright as devotion's holiest zeal, For sex, without its ill, has being there; All pleasure's smile and virtue's beauty wear, And kindred souls in dear communion blend, Love, purest love, without its sigh and care, And hand in hand their mounting way they wend, With hope that meets no chill, and joys that never end.

Devotion—'tis an all-absorbing flame— The Omnipotent, all-perfect, endless Being, The builder of the universal frame, At one quick glance, past, present, future, seeing, By whom, hot, cold, moist, dry, good, ill, agreeing, At last, the perfect birth of bliss comes forth, And evil to its native darkness fleeing, Virtue shines out in her unspotted worth, And blasts to meanest dust the proudest forms of earth.

Hark—hear the holy choir around the throne; Their lips are coals, their pæans vocal fire; They sing the Eternal Lord, who sits alone, And still their swelling anthem rises higher, The warbling of the universal lyre, The harmony of hearts, and souls, and spheres— O! how my bosom burns with long desire, How flow my bitter, penitential tears; O! 'tis a strain too loud and sweet for mortal ears.

But stop, delirious fancy! now awaking From thy enchanted dream, what meets thy sight? The charmed spell, that bound thy senses, breaking, Thy Eden withers in a simoom's blight, And all its suns have set in endless night; Love, sanctity, and glory, all a gleam, Thy airy paradise has vanished quite, And falling, fading, flickering, dies life's beam, Thy visioned heaven has fled—alas! 't was but a dream!

O! for those early days, when patriarchs dwelt In pastoral tents, that rose beneath the palm, When life was pure, and every bosom felt Unwarped affection's sweetest, holiest balm, And like the silent scene around them, calm, Years stole along in one unruffled flow; Their hearts aye warbled with devotion's psalm, And as they saw their buds around them blow, Their keenly glistening eye revealed the grateful glow.

They sat at evening, when their gathered flocks Bleated and sported by the palm-crowned well, The sun was glittering on the pointed rocks, And long and wide the deepening shadows fell; They sang their hymn, and in a choral swell They raised their simple voices to the Power, Who smiled along the fair sky; they would dwell Fondly and deeply on his praise; that hour Was to them, as to flowers that droop and fade, the shower.

He warmed them in the sunbeams, and they gazed In wonder on that kindling fount of light, And as, hung in the glowing west, it blazed In brighter glories, with a full delight They poured their pealing anthem, and when night Lifted her silver forehead, and the moon Rolled through the blue serenity, in bright But softer radiance, they blessed the boon That gave those hours the charm without the fire of noon.

Spring of the living world, the dawn of nature, When Man walked forth the lord of all below, Erect and godlike in his giant stature, Before the tainted gales of vice 'gan blow; His conscience spotless as the new-fallen snow, Pure as the crystal spouting from the spring, He aimed no murderous dagger, drew no bow, But at the soaring of the eagle's wing, The gaunt wolf's stealthy step, the lion's ravening spring.

With brutes alone he armed himself for war; Free to the winds his long locks dancing flew, And at his prowling enemy afar, He shot his death-shaft from the nervy yew; In morning's mist his shrill-voiced bugle blew, And with the rising sun on tall rocks strode, And bounding through the gemmed and sparkling dew, The rose of health, that in his full cheek glowed, Told of the pure, fresh stream, that there enkindling flowed.

This was the age, when mind was all on fire, The days of inspiration, when the soul, Warmed, heightened, lifted, burning with desire For all the great and lovely, to the goal Of man's essential glory rushed; then stole The sage his spark from heaven, the prophet spake His deep-toned words of thunder, as when roll The peals amid the clouds—words that would break The spirit's leaden sleep, and all its terrors wake.

He stood on Sinai, wrapped in storm-clouds, wild His loose locks streamed around him, and his eye Flashed indignation on a world defiled With sense and slavery, who lost the high Prerogative of power and spirit, by Their longings for their flesh-pots—O! 't is lust, Which robs us of our freedom, makes us lie Wallowing in willing wretchedness, nor burst That thraldom, of our woes, most foul, most hard, most curst.

He saw those Samsons by a harlot shorn, He saw them take the distaff, and assume The soft and tawdry tunics, which adorn The leering siren; all their flush and bloom, And might and vigour, all that can illume And blazon manhood, by the magic rod Of pleasure changed to weakness, squalor, gloom, And they, who erst with port majestic trod, When drunk, and gorged, and numbed, in sleep lethargic nod.

He stood and raised his mighty voice in wrath, And sent it, like a whirlwind, o'er those ears, And thrilled them, like a simoom on its path Of havoc. See, the slumbering giant hears, And waked, and roused, and kindled by his fears, Starts into new life with an instant spring; This is no time for soft repentant tears; At once away their wine-drenched spoils they fling, Their energy is up, their souls are on the wing.

They did not lie, and wish, and long to break The manacles which clasped them; they did tear Cables as we would silk-threads, and did take An upward journey, where the world shines fair, The temple of true virtue, glory, where Man lives and glows in sunshine, where the prize, More rich than laurel wreaths, for all, who dare To reason's perfect, fearless freedom rise, Sends forth bright beams, that dim and blind all meaner eyes.

Go o'er the fields of Greece and see her towers Fallen, and torn, and crumbled—see her fanes Prostrate and weed-encircled; dimly lours Brute ignorance around them, slavery reigns And lords it o'er their sacred cities, chains Are riveted upon them, and they gall Their cramped limbs to the bone, the lashed wretch strains To rend the gnawing iron—but his fall Is in himself—sleep on—ye well deserve your thrall.

This is the old age of our fallen race; We mince in steps correct, but feeble; creep By rule unwavering in a tortoise pace; We do not, like the new-born ancient, leap At once o'er mind's old barriers, but we keep Drilling and shaving down the wall; we play With stones, and shells, and flowers, and as we peep In nature's outward folds, like infants, say, How bright, and clear, and pure, our intellectual day.

We let gorged despots rise and plant their foot Upon our prostrate necks, if they but give Their golden counters. Tyranny takes root In a rich soil of sloth and self—we live Like oysters in their closed shells—can we strive For freedom when this cobweb circle draws Its tangling coils around us? let us give Our hearts to Nature and her sacred laws, And we can fight unharmed, unchecked in freedom's cause.

There are a few grand spirits who can feel The beauty of simplicity, and pour Their ardent wishes forth, and sternly deal Their crumbling blows around them; they would soar, Where man unfettered rises, proudly o'er The common herd of slaves to power and rule: Go, search the world, you cannot find a more Weak, drivelling subject for a despot's tool, Than him who dares not leave the lessons of his school.

Cast back your sickened eye upon the dawn Of Greek and Roman freedom—See their sons Before the bulwark of their dear rights drawn, Proud in their simple dignity, as runs The courser to the fair stream—on their thrones They sat, all kings, all people—they were free, For they were strong and temperate, and in tones Deep and canorous, nature's melody, They sung in one full voice the hymn of liberty.

In Dorian mood they marched to meet their foes; With measured step their awful front they bore, As when a mountain billow slowly flows, Rising and heaving onward to the shore, It rolls its mingled waters with a roar, That echoes through the mountains; wide they dash, Blue as the heavens they kiss, and tumbling o'er, They burst upon the coast, and foaming lash The rocks and splintered cliffs, Earth groans beneath the crash.

Then liberty and law were brightest—men Were not themselves—the city was their soul; They did not keep their treasures in a den, And brood them, as a fowl her eggs—the pole To which their hearts were pointed, and the goal Of all their strivings was the public good; The sage, with naked brow and flowing stole, And snowy beard, and eye majestic, stood, And gave to willing minds their high but simple food.

It was not cates which pleased then—but they drew, And filled their brimming goblet from the stream, And plucked the fruits that overhung it; few But noble were their works—the living beam Of sun-light stamped their pages—we may dream Of monsters, till the brain is mad—the pure, Bright images, wherewith their volumes teem, The taste of nature always will allure, And while man reads and thinks, and feels and loves, endure.

Then wisdom crowned her head with stars, and smiled In Socrates, and glowed in Plato, shone Like Day's God in the Stagyrite, who piled A pyramid of high thoughts; as a throne, It lorded o'er the world for ages; grown Weak in a second childhood, they did count And nicely measure each minutest stone, And crawled around the base, but could not mount And taste, upon the top, the pure ethereal fount.

Then Eloquence was power—it was the burst Of feeling, clothed in words o'erwhelming, poured From mind's long cherished treasury, and nurst By virtue into Majesty; it soared And thundered in Pericles; and was stored With fire that flashed, and kindled, in that soul, Who called, when Philip, with barbarian horde, Hung over Athens, and prepared to roll His deluge on her towers, and drown her freedom's whole.

Then Poetry was inspiration—loud, And sweet, and rich, in speaking tones it rung, As if a choir of muses from a cloud, Sun-kindled, on the bright horizon hung; Their voices harmonized, their lyres full strung, Rolled a deep descant o'er a listening world— There was a force, a majesty, when sung The bard of Troy—his living thoughts were hurled, Like lightnings, when the folds of tempests are unfurled.

Was it the tumult of contending powers, The clash of swords and shields, the rush of cars, Or when aloft in night's serenest hours, The moon, encircled by her train of stars, Poured her soft light around, and dewy airs Breathed through the camp and cooled the warrior's brow; Was it the mellow slumber, which repairs The languid limbs, or keen-edged words, that bow The soul in wondering awe; or was it, round the prow,

The purple wave disparting, and in foam Roaring behind the vessel, as she flew, A white-winged falcon, from her lessening home, Ploughing the sea's broad back, as loudly blew The winds among the cordage—Nature threw Her energy athwart his page, and shed Her blaze upon his mind, and there we view, If, chance, by taste, unwarped, unfettered, led, A new-made world, all life and light, around us spread.

The times are altered—man is now no more The being of his capabilities; The days of all his energy are o'er; And will those fallen demi-gods arise In all their panoply, and hear the cries Of king-crushed myriads, who wear the chain Of bondage; will light dawn upon their eyes, And wake them from their iron sleep, again To bare their breast in strife on freedom's holy plain?

A trumpet echoes o'er their tombs—awake! The long full peal is "vengeance!—sleep no more;" The marble walls, as by an earthquake, break, And, lo! an armed legion onward pour Bright casques and nodding plumes, and thirsting gore, The blood of awe-struck tyrants, flash their swords; Their march is as a torrent river's roar, And with a waked slave's desperation, towards Their homes of icy gloom, they drive Sarmatia's hordes.

There is a flood of light rolled round the hill Of Jove, and from its cloudy brightness spring Spectres of long-departed greatness; still Their heart-felt homage to that shrine they bring, Which time has made all-sacred, where the king Of thunder sat upon his ivory throne, And by him stood his bird, with ready wing To pounce upon his foes. The days are flown, When darkness ruled as God—Valour will claim his own,

And Rome again is free, and from thy shore, Italia! Gaul, and Goth, and Hun, shall fly; Thy sons shall wash away their shame in gore, And once again the year of liberty, The mighty months of glory, they shall see, Along thy radiant Zodiac, on the path Of ages, warn the nations, "we are free"— O! who can tell the madness and the wrath, The drunkenness of soul, a new-waked people hath?

They stand for hearth and altar, wife and sire; Their lisping infants call them to the fight, And as they call, their eye-balls flashing fire, And shouting with a courser's wild delight, When loosed he bounds and prances in the might Of young life. There is in the sound of home A magic, and the patriot, in his right Strong-founded, meets the prowling foes, that come To waste his land—no threats his valour can benumb.

The torch that lights him in his high career, Was kindled at the purest, holiest flame; He fights for all his bosom holds most dear, And O! no voice so conquering as the claim Of filial tenderness and love; no name So melting as sire, wife, and children—all Are in those sweet words blended. What is fame, Though pealing with her trumpet, to the call Of kindred, bound and toiling in a tyrant's thrall?

He sees the noble and the learned stoop, And kiss the feet that crush them, and the crowd, In hopeless, cureless, willing bondage, droop; And yet he does not shrink beneath that cloud, But, muttering execrations deep, not loud, He whets his sword upon his heaped-up wrong; And starting, like a spectre from his shroud, Stung by the lash of slavery's knotted thong, In all the might of wrath, he hurls his strength along.

Even as a tigress, when her secret lair The hunter hath invaded—how she draws Her limbs to all their tenseness, points her hair, Gnashes her grinding teeth, and bares her claws, And breathes a stifled growl, and in a pause Of burning fury hangs upon the spring; And nerved and heated in a parent's cause, Bounds roaring on the robber, like the wing Of pouncing hawk, or stone hurled whizzing from the sling.

They meet at Tivoli—and night has spread Her curtain o'er those legions, who would quench The flame, that Brutus, Tully, Cato, fed; And from its lofty column madly wrench The new-raised statue. Freemen will not blench, When they have broke their fetters; but will arm Their nervy hands with vengeance, and will clench And grapple with their masters; for the charm Of liberty's sweet voice the coldest heart will warm.

They meet, and they are victors—but the soul, Like his own mountain's lava glowing, dies, And falls with hand firm-grasped upon the goal Of all his longings. As he mounts the skies, He drops his mantle on the youth, who rise To give their lives, like him, to liberty; Devoted to the noblest sacrifice, Like stars of purest brightness, they shall be The rallying point, where all the bruised and crushed shall flee.

A dream—a cruel dream—fair rose the sun Of freedom on that sky without a cloud; Sweet was the dawn, when liberty was won By hands unweaponed; and they hasted, proud Of bloodless conquest, in their pæans loud To those who Samson-like had rent their chain; Then heavenward shone the foreheads, which had bowed To foreign rule for ages, and again The people's majesty towered over hill and plain.

And we did hope the Roman had awaked, And ancient valour had revived anew, And that the Eagle's thirst of light unslaked, As when above the capitol she flew, Still sought her eyry in the boundless blue; And we did hope a spirit had gone forth, Which tyrants and their parasites would rue, And, like a torrent rolling to the north, Would with it blend all hearts, that kept man's native worth.

It seemed the renovation of the world, The knell of despots, and the day when thrones Were tottering, and crowns falling, when Kings, hurled From their base height of lust, should leave their bones To moulder in their feudal filth; the stones Which bound the arch of empire, lost their hold, And in the sudden crush were heard the groans Of gorged and pampered spoilers, who had rolled Like havoc on the dumb, weak tremblers of their fold.

And we did see a nation on their way To stop the invading torrent, ere it came And deluged their fair fields. It was a day Of breathless expectation, when the flame Of freedom burned the highest, for the game Of Man's emancipation was at stake. The heart that would not throb then, had no claim And place in Honor's column—'twould not wake, Even if a bolt from Heaven should by its pillow break.

They hung upon the mountains, like a storm Crowning the Appenine with deep, dun shade, And o'er them towered the bold and ardent form, Who seemed in panoply of fire arrayed; And from their pikes and bayonets there played A stream of lightnings on the advancing host, Which, trained and nurtured in the murdering trade, Like tempest-billows rolling to the coast, Marched slow, and still, and sure, to storm that rocky post.

In all the discipline of war they came; Their strong squared columns moved with heavy tread; Their step, their bearing, even their breath the same, And not a murmur whispered through the dead And boding silence; by a master led, Even as a rock, that fronts the infuriate wave, They saw them hanging on their mountain's head; With cold, proud sneer they marked the untutored brave, And knew here lay wide-yawned Italian freedom's grave.

Secure and calm, they pitched their camp, and piled Their arms, and furled their banners; all was still, When, like the bursting of a hail-cloud, wild Those sun-fired legions hurried down the hill, And dashed against their robbers, with a will To do all deeds of daring, and a might Nerved into madness by those wrongs, that fill The heart to overflowing; from that height, In one wild rush, they poured their souls into the fight.

Awhile the Austrian wavered, for the blows Fell with a giant's vigour; but the clear, Quick-sighted leader bade their stretched wings close, And circle in the headlong swarms; then fear Usurped the seat of courage; far and near The plain was covered with the flying bands. In vain the patriot's effort, word, and tear, His life's blood only drenched his country's sands, Or stained with fruitless drops the brute invader's hands.

The invading wave rolls on—no arm is raised To stem its ceaseless progress; in its flood It swallows all the hopes, on which men gazed With such deep yearnings, as when linnets brood Their callow nestlings—they are now the food Of sceptered ribaldry and regal sneers; Well, let them laugh and revel in light mood— A voice of wrath, ere long, will thrill their curs, And give them doubly full their cup of blood and tears.

Fosterers of nations! whose parental hand Scourges the unwilling subject to obey, To you, ye self-misnomered holy band, The goaded slaves their stripes and wounds shall pay; Though now their heads in child-like fear they lay; They keenly feel the smart of all their wrong; They now may stoop and crawl, there is a day When they will rise and to their vengeance throng; Even now ye trembling dread what will not linger long.

Aceldema of nations! thou hast bled From countless gashes—thou must still bleed on; Thy children's gore that harvest-field has fed, Where thou thy chains and manacles hast won; Thy struggle for true liberty is done, France, Italy, have roused and burst their thrall, And started in that glorious race to run— Where have their high words ended? See their fall— The despots crush them now, and say, "So perish all

Who will not sleep contented, while we rule, And fleece, and flay them;" you may writhe and turn, And curse them, as you crouch, their earth-pressed stool; Yes, ye may start a moment, spring and spurn The foot that treads you; ye may glow and burn With wrath to be so scoffed at, but a weight Like mountains bows you down; dust is your urn; The spirit is besotted—this your fate, To rise and stumble, kneel and kiss the hand you hate.

One storm has come and gone—the film is torn From off your eyes—you look, and Power is there; Around his throne unnumbered shields are borne, Serried in close array; you cannot tear The monster from his pinnacle; his lair Is filled with bones of freemen he has slain. As a crouched lion, when his fangs are bare, He casts around his keen eye; Hope in vain Lifts up her gut, his glance bends it to earth again.

Freedom can have no dwelling on that shore; She must away and cross the Atlantic flood: Why play the rude game over? you may pour In waves, like torrent rivers, your best blood, But it will end in "we have dared and stood In battle for our rights; we sink again Before an overwhelming weight, the food Of tyrants and their parasites, who drain Our tears like wine, and bind with doubled links our chain."

Severe and simple, walked the Cyprian sage In Athens' pictured porch; he showed and taught Unbending virtue in a downward age, And reckoned all the joys of sense as nought, And mastered down the tide of swelling thought, And bound on passion an unyielding rein; With slow, sure step, the highest good he sought, And shunning, as a viper's tooth, the stain Of weakness, marched erect to truth's majestic fane,

Which stood aloft in Doric plainness, bright The sun-beams played upon its marble pride, And from it flashed a stream of purest light Down its ascending path—as rolls the tide Of snow-fed torrents, in a deep, a wide, Resistless rush of waters, till the plain Is satiate with its richness; then they glide In summer's scanty wave, so pure, no stain Darkens its liquid light, when rolling to the main.

So on the mind enwrapped in error's cloak, Whom bigotry and sense have led astray; If chance the fetters of his thought are broke, And all the night that dimmed him, swept away, And on him wisdom pours her fullest ray, A flood seems rolled through his exulting soul, And all its fulness hardly can allay His new-waked thirst for knowledge; to the goal Of truth he springs and spurns indignant all control.

Awhile he grasps at Science, with the strong, Fierce spirit of ambition, when his car O'er fortune's field of blood is borne along, Drawn by the wildly rushing steeds of war, And hurrying on in quest of Fame's bright star, That shines through smoke, and dust, and wounds, and gore; Justice and mercy cannot raise a bar Across the torrent of his wrath; its roar Drives virtue, love, and peace, affrighted from its shore.

So on he rushes, in the high pursuit Of knowledge, till his stored and wearied mind Bows 'neath the weight of its collected fruit, And casting all its useless load behind, No more to man's essential being blind, His thought dwells only on the good supreme; Then calm in dignity, in taste refined, A spirit pure and lucid, as the beam Ethereal, virtue's charms are his continual theme.

And what is virtue but the just employ Of all our faculties, so that we live Longest, and soundest, and serenest—joy Its handmaid, all the sweets that health can give, The light heart, and the strong frame, which can strive, Delighted in the war we must endure; Thoughts clear, bold, tireless, feelings all alive, No passion can subdue, no sense allure, Even as our Sire in Heaven, just, merciful, and pure.

The animal is crushed, the God bears sway, The immortal essence, the enkindling fire; What powers, what energy, it can display, When, freed from life's gross wants, it dare aspire, And give a free rein to its high desire, And longing for a mind that cannot sleep, Even as Apollo with his golden lyre, And canopied in sunbeams, he would sweep His chords, and pour a hymn, harmonious, full, and deep.

A hymn to Nature, and the unseen hand That guides its living wheels, the moving soul Of this material universe, who spanned Within his grasp, its circle, where suns roll, Each in its fixed orb, and around the whole Has drawn in viewless light its flaming walls; This is the limit of our thought, the goal Where mind's imaginative pinion falls, When wrapt in solemn thought, no link of earth inthrals.

I walk abroad at midnight, and my eye, Purged from its sensual blindness, upward turns, And wanders o'er the dark and spangled sky, Where every star, a fount of being, burns, And pours out life, as Naiads, from their urns, Drop their refreshing dew on herbs and flowers— I gaze, until my fancy's eye discerns, As in an azure hall, the assembled powers Of nature spend in deep consult those solemn hours.

Methinks I hear their language—but it sounds Too high for my conception, as the roar Of thunder in the mountains, when it bounds From peak to peak; or on the echoing shore The tempest-driven billows bursting pour, And raise their awful voices; or the groan Rumbling in Ætna's entrails, ere its store Of lava spouts its red jets; or the moan Of winds, that war within their caverned walls of stone.

And there is melody among those spheres, A music sweeter than the vernal train, Or fay notes, which the nymph-struck shepherd hears, Where moon-light dances on the liquid plain, Then curls before the west wind, till the main Seems waving like a ruffled sheet of fire— 'T is Nature's Alleluia; and again The stars exult, as when the Eternal Sire Said, "be there light," and light shone forth at his desire.

How my heart trembles on so vast a theme— The boundless source of energy and power, The living essence of the good supreme, The all-seeing eye that watches every hour, That marks the opening of each bud and flower, That paints the colours of the ephemeron's wing, That counts the myriad drops, which form the shower, As wondrous in the awakening call of spring, As worlds that lie beyond the stretch of Fancy's wing.

With brute unconscious gaze, man marks the earth Take on its livery of early flowers; He sees no beauty in this annual birth, No ceaseless working of creative powers; His soul, lethargic, wakes not in those hours When air is living, and the waters teem With new-born being, and the mantling bowers Are full of love and melody, and seem The happy Eden of a poet's raptured dream.

The sky is then serenest and its arch Of brighter sapphire; and the sportive train Of life-awakening zephyrs, on their march, Shed renovating influence o'er the plain; The blue waves sparkle on the laughing main, Which renders back to heaven its placid smile; The chequered sky, now clear, now dropping rain On flowers, that spread their leaves to catch it, while The full-swoln river rolls a fertilizing Nile.

How lovely is the landscape! Morning peeps Behind yon leafy mountain, and her eye Looks o'er a fresh, green world, that calmly sleeps In the sweet cradle of its infancy, And clustering round the rocky summits, fly Light mists, now painted in the rich array Of Heaven's majestic spectrum, which on high Spans the dark tempest, as it steals away, And westward glows in pomp the golden eye of day.

Beneath the cliff that frowns in blackness, lies The mirror of dark waters, on it rest Soft wreaths of snowy vapour, such as rise Spotless in winter on the mountain's breast, Soft as the downy couch by beauty prest, And mantled in as gay a canopy Of overhanging clouds in crimson drest, All glow, transparency and purity, Fit curtain to the throne where dwells Eternity.

And now the sun springs upward from his bed, Insufferably brilliant, and his blaze Tinges with flowing gold the icy head Of peaks which rise above the clouds, and gaze In lonely grandeur on an endless maze Of budding landscape, hills, woods, meadows, lakes, Rivers, and winding rivulets, where plays The wave in lines of silver. Day now breaks In dazzling floods of light, and living nature wakes

Her woodland choristers, and air is breathing In tones of love-tuned harmony, the deep, Heart-kindling, soul-inspiring anthem wreathing The burst of native joy, that will not sleep, But at the summons of the dawn will leap, And all its full-swoln tides of feeling pour, And, as the light winds from the bright lake sweep The mantling vapours, it will freely soar And with its strong voice drown the waterfall's wide roar.

Let Man come forth, and in the general throng Of tuneful hearts, his high devotion raise, And, joining in the universal song Of thankful rapture, centre all the rays Of that heaven-lighted intellect, whose blaze, Bright emanation from the ethereal beam, Forever kindling through eternal days, A disembodied spark, along life's stream, Shall always hasten on to excellence supreme.

There is its only resting place—while here We pine in heart-sick longing. Is the fire, That burns within our bosoms, for a sphere Of brighter, purer being, something higher Than all Man ever reached to, the desire Of sinless purity and tireless thought, But the vibration of a living wire, The motion of frail flesh more nicely wrought, That trembles here awhile and then consumes to naught?

Our thoughts are boundless though our frames are frail, Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay; Though darkened in this poor life by a veil Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way To Heaven's high capitol our car shall roll; The temple of the power whom all obey, That is the mark we tend to, for the soul Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.

I feel it—though the flesh is weak, I feel The spirit has its energies untamed By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal The wounds which it has suffered; folly claimed Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly, And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed Elijah, when the chariot rushing by Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky.

We are as barks afloat upon the sea Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, The spirit, whose strong influence can free The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead, Cold night of moral darkness; from the bed Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call, And kindling in the blaze around him shed, Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.

Our home is not on earth; although we sleep, And sink in seeming death awhile, yet then The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap To life, and energy, and light, again; We cannot slumber always in the den Of sense and selfishness; the day will break, Ere we forever leave the haunts of men; Even at the parting hour the soul will wake, Nor like a senseless brute its unknown journey take.

How awful is that hour, when conscience stings The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, And screaming like a vulture in his ears, Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame; How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame.

Our souls have wings; their flight is like the rush Of whirlwinds, and they upward point their way, Like him who bears the thunder, when the flush Of his keen eye feeds on the dazzling ray: He claps his pinions in the blaze of day, And gaining on the loftiest arch his throne Darts his quick vision on his fated prey, And, gathering all his vigor, he is gone, And in an instant grasps his victim as his own.

We soar as proudly, and as quickly fall, This moment in the empyrean, then we sink, And wrapping in the joys of sense our all, The stream, that flows from Heaven we cannot drink, But we will lie along the flowery brink Of pleasure's tempting current, till the wave Is bitter and its banks bare, then we think Of what we might have been, and, idly brave, We take a short weak flight, and drop into the grave.

My heart has felt new vigour, and the glow Of high hopes and bright fancy, and the spring Of that unchanging being, whither flow The breathings of our spirit, when its wing Is spread to take its last flight, where we cling In all the storms of life, as to an oar; There, like the shining serpent, we shall fling Away our earthly shackles; there no more The wind shall lift the waves and send them to the shore,

To make wild music on the surging beach, And fling the foam aloft in snowy curls, And pouring headlong through the sea-wall's breach, Suck, in the raging vortex' giddy whirls, The sea-bird lighting on the wave, that hurls To swift destruction, but there is a rock, Built strong, deep-planted—mercy there unfurls Her white flag, and the bark, that stands the shock, The tempest-tossing tide breaker's burst shall mock.

Much study is a weariness—so said The sage of sages, and the aching eye, The pallid cheek, the trembling frame, the head Throbbing with thought and torn with agony, Attest his truth; and yet we will obey The intellectual Numen, and will gaze In wondering awe upon it, and will pay Worship to its omnipotence; the blaze Of mind is as a fount of fire, that upward plays

Aloft on snow-clad mountains, on whose breast Unspotted purity has ever lain; The clouds of sense and passion cannot rest Upon its shadowy summit, nor can stain The white veil which enwraps it, nor in vain Roll the white floods of liquid heat, they melt The gathered stores of ages, to the plain They pour them down in streams enkindling, felt By every human heart, in myriad channels dealt.

This is the electric spark sent down from Heaven, That woke to second life the man of clay; The torch was lit in ether, light was given, Which not all passion's storms can sweep away, There is no closing to this once-risen day; Tempests may darken, but the sun will glow, Serene, unclouded, dazzling, and its ray Through some small crevices will always flow, Nor leave in utter night the world that gropes below.

And now and then some spirit, from the throng, With wings Dædalean, in his rage will soar, And spreading wide his pinions, with a strong And desperate effort, from this servile shore Mounting like Minder's swans, whose voices pour Melodious music, like the dying fall Of zephyrs in a pine grove, or the roar Heard through the lonely forest, when the pall Of night o'erhangs us, borne from some far waterfall.

With wing as tireless, and with voice as sweet, His eye the falcon's, and his heart the dove's, He lifts his heavenward daring, till the heat Of that same orb he aimed to, which he loves To mark with keen eye till the cloud removes, That gave its glow a softness, with its blight Withers his sinewy strength; so Heaven reproves The minds, that scan it with audacious sight, And seek with restless gaze too pure, unmingled light.

Gay was the Paradise of love he drew, And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell Upon it till it had a life; he threw A tint of Heaven athwart it—who can tell The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell, That bound him to that vision? Cold truth came And plucked aside the veil—he saw a hell, And o'er it curled blue flakes of lurid flame— He laid him down and clasped his damp chill brow in shame.

His fall is as the Titan's, who would tear The thunder from their monarch, and would pile Their mountain stairway to Olympus, where The bolt they grasped at, pierced them; with a smile Of fearless power the thunderer sat the while, And mocked their fruitless toiling, then he hurled His whitening arrows, and at once their guile And force were blasted, and their fall unfurled An awful warning flag to a presumptuous world.

They stand, a beacon chained upon the rock; Heaven o'er them lifts unveiled her boundless blue; Ambition's sun still scorches, and the mock Of all their high desires is full in view; Affection cools their foreheads with no dew Of melting hearts, no rain of pitying eyes; The vulture, conscience, gnaws them, ever new Their heart's torn fibres into life will rise, The gorging fury clings, repelled she never flies.

These are the men who dared to rend the veil Religion hung around us; they would tear The film from off our eyes, and break the pale That bound the awe-struck spirit, nor would spare The worship paid by ages; in the glare Of their red torches Piety grew blind, And saw no more her comforter; her fair And fond hopes lost their beauty; can the mind, When rifled of its faith, so dear a solace find?

They pull down Jove from his Idæan throne; They quench the Jew's Schechinah, and the cross, That bore the mangled corse of Heaven's own Son, They trample in the dust, and spurn as dross; And will they recompense the world its loss? Have they a fairer light to cheer our gloom? Oh no!—the grave yawns on us as a fosse, Where we must sleep forever; this our doom— Body and mind shall rot and moulder in the tomb.

There is a mourner, and her heart is broken— She is a widow; she is old and poor; Her only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Sceptics! would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night?

She lives in her affections; for the grave Has closed upon her husband, children; all Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save Her treasured jewels; though her views are small, Though she has never mounted high to fall And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring Of her meek, tender feelings cannot pall Her unperverted palate, but will bring A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave, The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers—so softly pour The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more She muses on the griefs of former days; Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.

And Faith can see a new world, and the eyes Of Saints look pity on her; Death will come— A few short moments over, and the prize Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb Becomes her fondest pillow; all its gloom Is scattered; what a meeting there will be To her and all she loved here, and the bloom Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee— Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity

There is a war within me, and a strife Between my meaner and my nobler powers; I would and yet I cannot part with life; 'T is as a scorpion's sting to view those hours, Where soul has bowed to sense, and darkly lours The future in the distance. There are men, Whose strange-blent nature, now an angel's towers, And rides among the loftiest, and then Seeks, like a snarling dog, the cynic's squalid den.

They nestle in their prison; they can find No friend to pour their hearts on; they would cling Closer than ivy to the kindred mind They touch—its ice-cold freezes, then they fling Affection to the winds, and madly spring To shun their hated fellows in some cave; A leaden weight confines their spirit's wing, Life palls them, there is naught beyond the grave, They turn a sneer on Him, who gives his hand to save.

Theirs is the boundless love of sentient being— As they have now the will, had they the power, Were but their longings and their strength agreeing, Their outspread hand a flood of bliss would shower, And wake the moral world, as in the hour Of spring wakes living nature—from his sleep Of vice and superstition Man should tower; Thoughts pure, high feelings, purpose strong and deep, Should lift him on, like wings, up virtue's craggy steep.

And flowers should bloom on his ascending track, Like roses on their wild thorns, by the way The hunter scales the mountains, nor should lack Music of tuneful birds; the flute should play The soft airs of the shepherdess , when day Spreads the broad plane tree's noon shade, and when night Spangles her silent canopy, away By some dark cavern on the lonely height, The full-voiced hymn shall tell the hermit's holy flight;

Who sits alone in darkness, wrapped in musing, Communing with the Universe, the Power, Whose ceaseless mercy love and life diffusing, Bids the sun dart his warm rays, sends the shower, Mantles the turf in green, and decks the bower With tufted leaves and wreathed flowers, whose perfume, Earth's incense, breathes most sweetly at the hour, When soft-descending night-dews steep the bloom, And with their star-lit gems the mantling arch illume;

And from this waste of beauty fills the urn Of plenty with her fair fruits, spreads the plain With all the wealth of harvest, the return Of spring's delightful promise, with a chain Of love and bounty binding life's domain To Him, who by his fiat gave it birth; Else had these flowery fields a desert lain, And all the riches of the teeming earth Been withered by the touch of endless, hopeless dearth;

Else had one wilderness of rock and sand, Treeless and herbless, where no rain nor dew Poured their reviving influence, one land Of sparkling barrenness appalled the view, And o'er it Heaven had raised its cloudless blue, Hot as the burning steel's cerulean glow, And the sun's blasting arrows darted through The scorched brain, till its lava blood would flow In torrents, and its veins throb with delirious throe;

And man had died of thirst and famine—Death Comes not with direr aspect; eyes of blood, Staring and bursting; frequent, fiery breath Heaved from the breast, that seems one boiling flood Of maddening pulses, writhing as a brood Of serpents roused to fury; like their hiss They rush along the swoln veins, and for food His parched jaws gnaw his flesh, and O! what bliss To drain his life's warm stream—there is no death like this.

This is the living prototype of hell— The earth all fire without, all flame within, And conscience barking like a Hyæn's yell, And pouring out her vialed wrath on sin; She lights her torch unwasting—then begin Ages of endless torture, for the heart, Whom Circe and the tempting Sirens win, While listening to their voice, must feel the smart And pangs of unfed Hope's forever probing dart.

The clouds are gathering on the mountain tops, And in their dark veil wrap those cliffs and towers Of wasteless granite, those enduring props, On which the arch of Heaven rests, where the Powers Of winter hold their rule, even in the hours When sultry summer scorches; there they roll And spread their frowning curtains; night there lours With an unusual blackness, and the pole Rocks with the bolt, as if the knell of nature tolled.

In hazy gloom the threatening tempest broods, Crowning with ebon wreaths the mountain's cone, And holding in its magazine, the floods, That soon will hurry headlong from its throne, From rock to rock impetuous pouring down Their dark, foam-crested waters, as the mane Waving amid the rush of war, and drown, In their wide-wasting waves, the cultured plain, And bear flocks, forests, towns, and harvests, to the main.

And see—the cloudy billows heave their surges, In airy tides, along yon western wall, Now swiftly rolling as the roused wind urges, Now hanging silent as the wild blasts fall, Drooping in massy folds, as if the pall Of all these sweet scenes o'er us were outspread; Even as a spectre rising grim and tall At night to some scared wanderer, fancy-led, Sullen, and dim, and dark, towers yonder mountain's head.

A solemn pause—the woods below are still; No breezes wave their light leaves, and the lake Lies like a sleeping mirror; on the hill The white flocks eye the rain-drops, that will slake Their hot thirst, and the screaming curlews take Their circling flight along the silent stream; Save their storm-loving music now awake, Nature seems slumbering in a midnight dream; She starts—behold aloft that sudden quivering gleam.

The torch is lit among the clouds—the peals Roar through the lonely wilds, and echoing swell Around the far horizon—earth now feels And trembles as she listens—who can tell The spirit's awe? as if it heard its knell, It bows before the Power, whose hand controls Lightning, and wind, and waves, who loves to dwell In storms, and on its path the tempest rolls, Whose words are bolts, whose glance electric pierces souls,

And makes the bold blasphemer pale with awe, And stills the madman's laugh, and strikes with dread The brow, that bore defiance to the law Stamped on the universe; he hides his head In darkness like the ostrich, all those, led By his once fearless mocking, slink away, And o'er them prostrate, wrathful angels tread,And draw their fiery arrows, and repay With fear and death the hearts that dare to disobey.

'Tis night, and we are on the mountain top— The air is motionless, and not a breath Of wind is whispered, and the pure dews drop From Heaven, like tears, upon this lovely death Of nature, while the landscape underneath, And the vast arch above, smile in the ray Of the full moon, who, circled in her wreath Of glory, walks, a queen, her lofty way, And pours upon the world a softer, calmer day.

The hills, the plains, and meadows, far below, Sparkle with watery diamonds, and the stream That steals in oft meanders, in its flow Of peacefulness, is silvered with her beam, And the round basins in the woodlands seem Like mirrors circled in a pearly row, And like the colours of the dying bream, The soft mists hovering round them, bear the bow, The aerial brede of light, lit with a mellower glow,

Than when it sits majestic on the storm, What time it hangs along the eastern sky, The herald of returning calm, its form, As imaged erst, a maid of peaceful eye, Who on her dewy saffron wings would fly, And roll away the clouds along the wind, And laughing as she saw the car on high Shine in its full effulgence, as the mind, Whom sense can never sink, nor passion's fury blind.

So rolls that car along its arch of blue, And shines with a serener effluence; air Wakened by fanning breezes, charms anew The flushed cheek with its coolness; Heaven is fair, A speck dims not its liquid azure, there The eye can rest with calmness, and the green And bloom of grass and flowers new richness wear, And sweeter incense rises from the bean, And jessamine, and rose, that scent this dewy scene.

As when the twilight of a weary life Comes on with quietness and purity, And after vainly struggling in the strife Of pleasure or ambition, from the eye The film falls, and the mantling vapours fly, And Man stands forth in his pure, native worth, And after tears for lost years hurried by, The soul awakens to a second birth, And for a few hours knows there is a Heaven on earth.

Live for the present moment, but live so As you might live forever; let the cares And toils of this poor transient being go, And pluck the fruit the tree of knowledge bears, And gaze upon the charms which virtue wears, Till her eye's light has filled and warmed your breast— Be strong, and bold, and active—he who dares Contend in virtue's panoply is blest Alone with Heaven's unstained, enduring, noiseless rest.

Give me the evening of a summer's day, A long bright day of glory, when the sun Is most effulgent, and the earth most gay, And after deeds of lofty daring done, And palms on many a field of combat won, Where tempests rage, or noontide glows with power, And when the mind its high career has run To seek a covert at this silent hour, Where songs and gales may lull in some secluded bower.

'Tis night, and winds are hushed—the leaves are still, Or scarcely ruffle on the poplar bough, And where a stream of waving light, the rill Drips o'er the face of yonder mountain's brow, The moon-beams shine as on Endymion; now The forests are unpeopled of those gay And lovely nymphs and wanton fawns, but how They gave the fancy of the Poet play, And threw a rosy hue mid perfume o'er his lay.

The Spring came forth, and with her came a train Of hours and loves and graces, every bower Concealed its nymph, and every flowery plain Was full of light-winged Cupids; for the power Of love awaked the Universe, the hour, When Hymen lit his torch, and Psyche came Wrapped in the embrace of Eros, and a shower Of sweets was poured around them, and a flame Shot from the glowing eyes of that enamoured dame.

She gave her soul to love, and on her lip Her heart stood, and he kissed the prize away, More sweet than when the dews from roses drip In spangles on the grass, in early day, When emerald sylphs on airy pinions play, And lightly hover, as the leaves unfold And spread their vermil velvet, in the ray Poured through the leafy canopy, and rolled O'er all the bloom below in waving floods of gold:

The lilac purpling with its luscious spires, Breathing a milky sweetness, like the balm From Aden's groves of myrrh, where summer fires The living world to rapture, but the calm, Cool shade of spreading maples, than the palm With all its crimson clusters, charms me more; The violet, lurking underneath the halm Of withered grass tufts, has a dearer store Of sweets, than all the flowers that glow on Ceylon's shore.

The heart cannot be cold in such a shade; It will be melted, as the icy stream That steals with limpid current through the glade, And murmurs not in winter, but the beam Of warmth dissolves it; as a fleeting dream The fretted icicles are gone, the wave, Gliding o'er snowy sands in morning's gleam, Chimes like the song of sorrow Cycnus gave, In tones of dying woe around his brother's grave.

How poor, how weak, how impotent is Man— Cradled in imbecility, the prey Of those who love him fondest, who will fan His passions by indulgence, and will sway To sense and self, and pride and fear, and play Their apish tricks upon him, till his soul Has lost its native innocence; the ray Kindled from Heaven, while feeble yet, is stole By sirens, and then quenched in Pleasure's mantling bowl.

The foaming goblet sparkles to the brim, And heedless youth hangs o'er the glowing stream, And in its amber waters gaily swim The fairest visions of enchantment's dream, And o'er it plays a soft and sunny beam, That steals in serpent windings to the heart, And like a viper's hid in roses, gleam The flashing of its keen eyes, as a dart With venom tipped, they give deep wounds that ne'er depart.

We lie along in gay voluptuous ease— The full vine mantles o'er us, and our pillow Of mingled moss and flowers; the hum of bees Sucking the dew of roses, and the willow Now hung in downy bloom, and clothed in yellow, Comes like a drowsy zephyr on the ear, And the clear-flowing fountain murmurs mellow, And airy birds in mazy circles veer, And all seems fair and bright as some celestial sphere.

We sip the cup of promise, and we drain With eager lip its nectar, till the fume Mounts kindling to the wild and heated brain; And then all things a richer tint assume, And are enrobed in splendour, and illumed With gay looks, and bright eyes, and speaking glances, And laughing frolic waves her spangled plume, And revelry with light step featly dances, And on their rainbow wings flit round a crowd of fancies.

And from our couch we spring—we scarce can tread This poor earth in our extacy, on high We float through fields of Ether, overhead Swells with a bluer, loftier arch the sky, And on an eagle's wings we seem to fly, And all the kingdoms of the world appear In dazzling beauty to the fancy's eye, And like the tuneful spirit of some sphere, The sweet winds pour full floods of music in our ear.

As breezes from Sabæa o'er the main Waft fragrance on their pinions from the groves Of Myrrh and Cassia, and the snowy plain Of Coffee-blossoms, where the Queen of Loves, Drawn in her pearly car by purple doves, Would linger with most fondness on her way; A land of passion—under shady coves Hollowed in living rock, they spend the day, To see their Houries dance and hear their citterns play.

The past is gone—it can return no more, The dew of life exhaled, its glory set; It has no other goods for me in store, It is a dreary wilderness, and yet I fondly look and linger. In the net Of pleasure all the breathings of my soul, The burning thoughts alone on Learning set In tender childhood, pointed to the goal, Where bards and sages aimed, in Youth blind leaders stole,

And vile companions rifled, and they left My heart dispirited, and sunk, and poor, Of all its highest hopes and wants bereft, A pinnace on the waves with naught to moor Or bind it to the safe bank; from the shore, Where my best powers stood weeping, o'er the deep, Tossing and madly heaving, wild winds bore My dark, distracted being, where fiends keep Their orgies, and the worm that gnaws, will never sleep.

There is no hope—ten years the winds have blown, That bore me to my ruin, and the waves Roll in my wake like mountains—Joy has flown, And left behind the lonely turfless graves Of early fond attachments—like the slaves Bound fettered to the galley, at the oar Still I must toil uncheered, or in the caves, Where not a ray of hope comes, I must pour Tears, bitter tears, that well from the heart's bleeding core.

The soul that had its home with me was bright, Its early promise as the flowers of spring, Profuse in richness as the dawning light, When the gay rosy-footed Hours take wing, And from the glowing East the coursers spring, That bear the car of day along its road, And o'er a waking world their radiance fling— So bright the stream of mind within me flowed, It had one only wish—to scale the high abode,

Where Truth has reared her awful throne, and pure Platonic beauty sits, a smiling bride, The Majesty that bows, and to allure The winning charms of Virtue by his side— Cursed be the drawling pedants, who divide The monarch from his lovely queen, and sink The soul in stupid awe, too soon to hide Its coward head in pleasure's lap, and drink Her tempting, fiery draughts—Stop! ye are on the brink

Of endless woe and ruin—sleep no more— The charm will soon be broken—ye will wake, And find the alluring hours that wooed you o'er, And rising like a fury, Vice will shake Her smoky torch, and in your heart's blood slake Its Hell-lit fires, and you will seek in vain The young days that have vanished; in the lake, That Priests have drawn so highly, there remain But years of hopeless thought, and still returning pain.

The world may scorn me, if they choose—I care But little for their scoffings—I will think Freely, while life shall linger on, and there I find a plank, that bears me—I may sink For moments, but I rise again, nor shrink From doing what the love of Man inspires: I will not flatter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink At what high-mounted wealth or power desires; I have a loftier aim to which my soul aspires.

'Tis of no common order, but is founded On all the capabilities of Man, Not like Condorcet's waking dreams, 'tis bounded By what our free, unfettered efforts can, The high career that Tully, Plato, ran, Or higher still, the ideal they could form— 'Tis ignorance, not nature, puts the ban On these bright, perfect visions, which could warm Worthies of Old, who lived in virtue's darkest storm.

They saw Man sunk around them, groveling, vile, A mass of brutal grossness, shivering fear, Follies, that made the cold Abderite smile And on his fellows look with bitter sneer, And squalid woes, that drew the Ephesian's tear, Which flowed for miseries he could not heal; So wept the man, to whom all life was dear, Whose heart was made most sensitive to feel, And from a wretched world in hopeless sorrow steal.

He could not cure the malady—too deep The poisoned dart was planted; but he gave His witness, and his voice should never sleep, A warning sound should issue from his grave, And tell to ages words, which heard might save From woes like those he suffered, woes like mine; The man, who will speak boldly, and will brave A thoughtless world's contempt, deserves to shine Bright in the loftiest niche of Fame's enduring shrine.

To feel a heart within thee, tender, flowing In tears at others pain, and racked with thine, A soul that longs for high attainments, glowing For all that can ennoble, raise, refine, Whose dearest longings seem almost divine, The insatiate grasp for knowledge, and the aim Of tireless, fearless virtue, then to pine, Unknown, unvalued, and to quench the flame Of mind in some low slough, and bid farewell to fame.

And why? because no hand was near to check The wanderings of my childhood, but their care, If care it could be called, which caused my wreck, Made sin's descending path to me seem fair; They poured her tempting fruits and viands there, And kindled in my heart the lava stream Of wasting passion—now I wake, and bare Before me lie the horrors of that dream, Which poor perverted youth the fairest Eden deem.

The world will never pity woes like mine— 'T is only justice pouring out her flood— I ask no pity, nor will I incline Weakly before the cross, nor in the blood Of others wash away my crimes—I stood Alone, wrapped in suspicion and despair, For they did goad me early to that mood— I hate not men, but yet I will not share Again their follies, hopes, their toils and fears, nor wear

The mantle of the Hypocrite, nor bow Before a fancied power, nor lisp the creed, Which offers them new life, they know not how, A blind belief, whose ministers will lead, Even as a hireling slave the shackled steed, The many who to nature's laws are blind— The heart whom early wrongs have taught to bleed, When blended with a bright and well stored-mind, In solace such as this, no hope, no joy can find.

I will not lift my hand against those laws, Which nature wears instamped upon her, nor Gird me to battle in so weak a cause, Nor waste my efforts in so fruitless war; But I will weep the hopes I panted for, Which virtue might have made reality, And know that fortune with malignant star Lighted my path, and with an evil eye Left me to those who crawled in Epicurus' stye.

I see the charms of virtue—can I take Again her narrow path, which leads to Heaven? Beside it flows a fountain, which can slake The temperate thirst of nature, there are given Fruits which refresh, not kindle—I have striven Against the long perversions of my frame, And I will strive—but no, by passion driven, In evil hour I do the deed of shame, And for a time I quench the soul's reviving flame.

I have no hand to cheer me—was there one, Whom I must ever long for, was that heart Still mine in all my failings, as the sun Wakens a slumbering world, she might impart New being to me, and my soul would start, As giants from their sleep, to run the race Of glory, and to hurl the unerring dart, Where victory rears her palm branch—No, my chase Of fame is done, and left behind it scarce a trace.